Bite Me, Jason Mraz!

There it was - this morning, nearly 8 of the clock - the famously infamous Blast From The Past.
Right in my bedroom, right in my face, straight out of Compton.
KIDDING.
But come it did - from the air waves right into mine ears, jump-starting that memory of yours truly.
I'd be lying if I claimed that it did not stop me in my tracks momentarily - such is the way of blasts in general, no? So I stood in my knickers, listening to Mraz's Jason wax poetic about starting to live sans souci and love and be loved and what have you.
Oh, the sweet agony in the general heart region.
I remembered listening to that song in days long forgotten and thinking about the person that held a place in my heart just to end up tearing it and thus becoming the face on the bull's eye of my dart board of loathing and destruction.
And I found myself - as I have been known to do quite regularly of late - wondering what went wrong and at what point in time did that downhill journey start.
I am unable to pinpoint the exact date, day, moment. Such is the way of things of the past, I believe.
Yet more and more I feel that both of us were to blame equally. After things had ended, it was easier to seek him out as the one who ruined it all.

Now I think it was more a matter of two souls not really made for each other.
We met at a time in our respective lives that each of us found difficult to handle. And we sought solace and comfort. And that is what we found, in the beginning. We talked about fears and insecurities and before our eyes there the other's pain unfolded and it was strangely familiar and heartbreaking in the devastation it brought. And with that came a feeling of mutual understanding and trust. And then a fondness growing into affection. And some fierce need to keep the other close to get through the things that ailed us both. "Close" of course was difficult, us being apart some 400km. Thank God for phones and Skype and E-mail.

It is making me sad writing about this now. Perhaps it is self-pity. But there is also genuine sadness about it all. You start unwrapping that shiny present that is the other and after a while most of the layers are gone and more and more you realise what is underneath is not quite what you expected. Sure, relationships are work and it is easy to forget that when you're busy unwrapping and you are excited and you hold the other dear. You find all that you uncover interesting to the nineth, you can relate or seriously try to. You talk it over. You see their point. You join their team. You make such a fucking effort it almost hurts - only it is effortless.

In time though, the excitement wanes and with it the understanding, the happiness to go with it all, to accept things the way they are. The everyday stakes more and more claims. Unnoticed at first as you are too busy with each other to really see anything else for the brightness that illuminates everything around you. This is not made any easier by the fact that a certain immediacy is missing which is part and parcel of the long distance relationship.
For some it works - all that distance-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder. For me? It did not in the end.
My heart grew resentful and hard. 
I shall stop here.

Need to get some crying done.
Possibly some gorging of chocolate.
Thanks Jason! Really, thank you so much! You couldn't have wrecked my day more thoroughly even if you tried.
Why? Well, for starters even IF it is our god-forsaken right to be loved, loved, loved what's a gal to do when there's not so much as a smudge on the love radar. And when there's the sneaking suspicion that there won't be in the near future.
And THAT thought, my dear Jason? THAT hopelessness, is rather too much on this February afternoon.
Right, now I have to do one more thing before crying and stuffing my face with chocolate. I have to get that fucking song out of my head.
Thanks again, asshole!

This too shall pass...

Looking back on this year and last - I know I am early for the year end review - I must confess I am not proud of my track record in the department of human relations. I am in fact a little saddened by it. 

Is there a prize for being unlucky where love is concerned? 

I am not quite sure why I feel the urge to record and dwell on those epic failures over and over.  

But then again, I do know exactly. The self-pitying kind always know. 

Also they know that they are punishing themselves á la "Told you so... nya, nya, nyanyanyaaaaa..."

Right, so I am a self-pitying masochist. That's something. Some people don't have anything to say for themselves... NOT ME! 

Ooh, I am glad I got that out of the way. 

BRING ON THE CHRISTMAS GLITTER!

Thankyouverymuch.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

I was pondering this yesterday.
I mentioned my clear-out, did I not.

Well, I have this box, as in 'actual physical box' where I keep a stack of e-mail print-outs. In the olden days these would have been LETTERS, handwritten and all, I know, I KNOW.... (sigh). I also have a seperate file in my e-mail account named Correspondence... you get the point, right?
Wow, so she gets e-mails....
Those are the reminders of the past. Part of my past. Pleasant and not so pleasant. But that is just how it goes. Nothing extraordinary about it. There is nothing at all about it that could be called special or even extraordinary.
In fact they are so unremarkable and non-specific to my life right now that I have not bothered to look at them in almost 2 years.
I knew they were there.
I ignored both boxes as well as one can.
I could not bring myself to a) burn the contents of cardboard box and b) delete Correspondence folder.

After a friend told me she got wheepy when finding old postcards from "that bastard" (her soon-to-be ex-husband), after I told her I still have most of the e-mail conversations saved or printed out, (yeah, perhaps a touch obsessive.) she simply looked at me questioningly. Why?!
I don't know.
Because I thought some day I would get them out and re-read them and I don't know LEARN something...?

Well, you HAVE learned something already: he was a shit. he was not good for you. Not even close to good enough. You were not even in the same category. So there's your lesson for you.
MOVE!
ON!

Part of my inability to let go is vanity I think.
It's pathetic but I do believe I wrote some pretty witty and insightful stuff then. And so naturally I want to hold on to those musings, keep them.
Again with the posterity!
I am sure yesterday it was established that no one gives a shit. The world keeps on turning. With or without some idiotic e-mails written over 2 years ago.
NO ONE CARES!
Believe it, girl. What you are up to in your little head is so inconsequential, it is elaborate to even say/write that it is in fact inconsequential.
So why does the human mind obsess on occasion about the ickle things in one's life?
Perhaps they were not so ickle.
Perhaps - and I realise that not so much with shock (because I have guessed this) but rather with a certain tiredness - this chapter has not been closed, for the sole reason that it has not been dealt with in an appropriate manner.

Maybe this is the time and the place. When it comes to digesting, dealing, sorting, this is a good place as any. It does not matter really (see above).
But what does matter is moving on. Moving away from the past with all one's faculties still intact and, what is more, with one's head screwed back on.

Let me start then, at random.
This is after all just me rambling. About . . . stuff. That's happened. That's never been aired properly and thus has been left to fester and boil. It is about time it was set straight:


I thought revenge, I thought doom, I thought bunny-boiling. Which is a normal course I do believe.
Well, not the bunny-boiling - but I am making a point here.
The point of anger. Something I have only ever allowed myself for moments, for tiny alotments of time.
In order to be able to say that I am mature and I get it, it didn't work out.
In order to be able to be the strong one that moves on, I held on to this anger, in effect holding it back. For fear of totally falling apart.


WHAT A CROCK O' SHITE!

Things Fall Apart - as The Roots so wisely said - and people fall apart, too - as I am sure anyone has noted once or twice in their lives but just did not bother to make an album about it.

Void, I am sorry - I will have to stop here.
Whatever excuse you accept.... oh right, you don't give a shit... ha, I forgot for just a sec.

Anyway, be back soon.

Blessed Are The Merciful

... for they will be shown mercy, according to Matthew. 
While I am not at all knowledgeable on all things Bible and have my quarrels with the Church, I have been known to ponder on occasion the idea of what makes a good person, not a good Christian, mind. 
Ms Kaine has some interesting points http://bibleunlocked.blogspot.com/2010/03/blessed-are-merciful-for-they-will-be.html - which almost had me convinced that I should look into Christianity more. But somehow I was saved from myself. It must have been a miracle, I guess. 
Then again, I really should keep my mouth shut about something I know so little about. 
What I do know, though, is that when I was a little younger and even more naive than now, I used to look down on people who only go to church on Christmas. I really thought I had a right to judge because I was such a wonderously steadfast church member and so dedicated at that. 
Seriously, I should have been given a proper slap for thinking that and holding myself in such high esteem, that's what should have happened. 
But it didn't. 

So nowadays I am just glad that I overcame that supercilious foolishness and furthermore I am grateful (listen to this, Brad!) that I have not turned into some bible bashing anti-abortionist, gay-hating creationist or whoever is out there these days that calls for various good slaps on their behinds.
The irony of it all is, I HAVE turned into one of those people that only go to church on Christmas. Because I simply do not care. Because I am a godless person leading a profane and empty life revolving around money and pettiness and ungratefulness and bickerings, grudges, greed, anger etc. etc. Yup, that is me. Thankfully not the Whore of Babylon, but not a Virgin Mary either. Just your friendly neighbourhood sinner.

How can I not care when my soul is on the line? Easy - I just don't. At least not because the Bible, or the Church, is telling me to. 
I believe there is a God without churches, temples, mosques. I believe there are good and kind people without ten outdated commandments, I believe that open-mindedness goes a long way. I also believe that patience is needed. With others and with ourselves. 
A friend of mine used to remind me that I needed to be kind to myself in order to be kind to others and that if I could not be kind to myself how could anyone else be. 
Ms. Kaine gets that. 

I am just hoping that the reverse of Matthew's musings is not necessarily true. (Something nice and pithy along the lines of Cursed be the Cruel etc.)
God could not possibly be okay with that. From what I have heard, He and His Son are big on forgiveness and patience, especially with the ones that deserve it least. 
Well, I am no God, oh boy, and don't I know it. In fact I am/we are all too human. 
And therefore, I do not feel bad for saying the following (again): 
I am all done with rising-above. 
I have phantasies of putting someone through hell and back. 
I wish agony and fear on someone. 
In fact, I rue the day I have ever met this someone. 
So much so, that I would like to cut that part of my memory out and burn it and scatter the ashes. 
And the reason I am writing this is to show how very un-Christian I am, but also how very, very human. 

When you're in love you'd do a lot for the one you're with, all's pure bliss (until it isn't, of course), and indeed the world seems made for two.
Lana was right.  
But even more so was William Congreve: 

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned, . . ."

Damn straight!

Monday Night Rant

So, Video Games pretty much sums it up, does it not.

The Things We Do For Love, as 10CC had it.

Every little thing we do is intended for that one we cannot seem to do without, whose presence makes us happier, shinier, brighter, makes us just about everything but a million times better than normal.

Us with the boobs, yeah – we are real suckers for this – and Lana’s spot on: we do put on his favourite perfume, his favourite dress, we makes ourselves pretty, we doll ourselves up, we wax and pluck and buff ourselves. So we can get screwed into submission…

Ah, I’m sorry. Feeling a bit dark today.